There are minutes and there are moments and then there’s life between them
A life well lived or one with you have to will yourself to live
It’s difficult to say
I have been managing to hold on to this end of my deal, to live life, to cry through the pain and yet to keep moving
Proving by my life that life is what you make it
But I sit today and wonder if it’s true?
Is life what makes us who we are or do we have a say in the making of us?
Is there free will or do we get a free end of a rope that is tied to the pole of fate?
You can only go as far before life catches you, hold you accountable for your past and your present
I plan, I reminiscence and yet I repeat the patterns of my life
The patterns weaved intrinsically into the fabric of my soul
I wonder where my soul is? is it the muffled voice under the debris of discomfort, pain and anxiety or is it a phenomenon which we try to spend our whole life trying to understand?
I ask these questions more to myself than to a source , a fictional God, because it seems the source isn’t that resourceful any more
Why else would we be asking questions that have no answers?